I Don't Know Why
by clair beaubien
Summary: Sam reflects on why he can't take of Dean the way Dean takes care of him. Slight tag scene to Bad Boys.


The 'Bat Cave' doesn't have any windows in it, so if it wasn't for the little red dot in the corner of my clock radio telling me A.M. or P.M., I wouldn't know if I was getting up at three in the morning for an early breakfast or three in the afternoon for a late lunch.

But the little dot tells me it's three A.M. I've been asleep - I have no idea how long. I'm too tired to do the math. Nine hours? If it's actually only the next morning. I don't know. We left Hurley in the early evening but I don't know what time we got back here.

What I do know is that I'm thirsty and I have a headache and I need to use the bathroom, so I get out of bed and head down the hallway. I use the bathroom, I get painkillers from the medicine cabinet and water from the sink and start walking back to my bedroom.

But a light from farther down the hallway catches my eye. We don't pay an electric bill but Dean's still picky about turning lights off when we're not using them, so I wonder if he fell asleep with a light on. I head that way instead of back to my room.

It's the lounge; we actually have a lounge, chairs and footstools and glass ashtrays on brass stands. We don't use it very often. We do most of our research and eating and drinking out in the library or map room and any down time we have is usually spent asleep in our beds.

But there's Dean - sitting on the floor with his back against one of the Art Deco club chairs. He's got one knee pulled up and he's resting his arm on his knee, and in his hand he's holding a bottle of whiskey. Not one of the good ones from the lounge's stock, but one of the rot-gut brand we carry with us on the road.

It's full, the bottle is full. Dean's just looking at it.

If it was me sitting on the floor like that at 3 A.M. and Dean found me, he'd either make some wise-ass remark about something, anything, a remark that means _'I know you're hurting, I'd sell the Impala to know how to help you'. _Or he'd ask some serious, cut-to-the-chase question that means, _'I know you're hurting, and you know I know it, so tell me how to help you'. _

And I'd laugh and roll my eyes and feel better. Or I'd answer his question which would tell him what I needed and he'd do whatever he could to make me feel better. And I'd feel better just because he tried.

But those techniques don't cut both ways.

And I don't know why.

"Hey," I offer quietly, as though there's anyone else within hearing distance I might be bothering.

And Dean looks up and asks - predictably - "Hey, what're you doing up? You okay?" Because even though I've already had more than a full night's sleep, he never comes first with himself.

"Had to use the bathroom. What're you doing up?"

He shrugs.

"Nothing."

And I'm tired and my head hurts and I don't know why I'm not allowed to take care of Dean the way he's allowed to take care of me.

"Bullshit." I say, but it doesn't have the heat I want it to have. "It's three a.m. and you drove practically non-stop for twenty four hours. You should be crashed."

"I slept," he says, but he doesn't say it like it's the last word on the subject. Subtle permission for me to poke a little deeper.

"Yeah? What - for four hours? You need more than that."

I'm expecting a lot of answers - dodges, lies, arguments. But he sighs and says, "Yeah, I do," and nothing else.

If it was me saying that, Dean would already have me on my feet. He'd be pushing me toward my room, telling me all the reasons I need to be in bed, using that fake-paternal tone he uses when I'm sick and he's trying to make me let him take care of me.

But Dean would have to be in one of the _Winchester Stages of Imminent Death_ for me to even think about bodily hauling him to his feet. And if I used the fake-paternal voice on him, he'd think I was making fun of him.

And I don't know why.

"Easier to sleep in a bed." I point out.

He shrugs like it doesn't matter then he huffs an amused breath.

"Says the guy who I've seen sleep standing up."

I'm just about to counter that with a terse review of my tortured sleep history when Dean looks at me.

"You take something for that headache?"

I don't know how, but he knows, he always knows, when I have a headache or a fever or a cold or internal bleeding. Sometimes he knows even before I know.

"Yeah," I say, and he nods. Not like he's acknowledging what I said, but rather that he's approving it. If I tried that on him, I'd get the stink eye. Or worse.

And I don't know why.

"You want a glass for that?" I ask him, nodding at the bottle.

"Nah."

Well, if he's not drinking it, what's he doing staring at it? Is he thinking about Hurley? About Sonny? About those two months of his life that he didn't have to worry about anybody but himself and how he absolutely flourished then?

I know I thanked Dean back in New York for always taking care of me, and I meant for my whole life but especially for giving up his only chance at normal for me, and I know Dean knows what I meant and why I meant it and I know he accepted and appreciated my thanks in his own amazingly humble way and I know I'm not allowed to ever discuss any of it ever again.

And I don't know why.

"You want - anything else?" I ask and can't help thinking, _like maybe your childhood back?_

"No." Dean says and follows it up immediately with, "You should go back to bed."

"Yeah? So should you."

"Yeah, in a bit."

Maybe I'm intruding. Maybe whatever he's thinking about - Sonny, Dad, Lisa, Cas, angels, heaven, hell, or something that I have no experience or clue about - maybe, like so much of the rest of our lives, maybe I'm intruding on time that Dean wants - needs - for himself.

But then he says - "Sammy - go back to bed."

_Sammy. _

If it was _Sam,_ it would be Dean-code for I'm serious, leave me alone and go back to bed.

But it's _Sammy._

Which right now is Dean-code for _I've been waiting for you to wake up. _

He's been waiting for me to wake up, waiting for me to be around to spend time with. But he won't come out and say it.

"You wanna watch a movie?" I offer.

"It's 3am," he says, like it's the absolute, obvious answer.

"I slept nine hours, I'm ready for breakfast."

Dean gives me a look like he knows I'm full of it, but he also smiles and gets to his feet. He sets the bottle of whiskey on the small table next to the chair he was leaning against.

"How about you eat a bowl of cereal before you go back to sleep and we'll call it even?"

I almost don't ask, but then I do ask, "Are you going back to bed? You need more than four hours."

He shakes his head. He's tired but he's not ready to go back to sleep just yet, for whatever reason. And he's sending me back to bed even though he wants company - _my _company - because he thinks my needs are more important than his.

I wish I could say I don't know why.

"How about we watch a movie in my room and we'll call it even?" I say.

Dean gives me the Look – one of them – his '_seriously_?' look. But he's not saying 'no'. I sweeten the deal.

"Driver picks the movie," I tell him. "Shotgun gets the cereal…"

He holds the 'seriously?' look a few seconds longer then taps my arm and heads out of lounge.

"C'mon – lets go get the cereal."

I start to follow him out and he calls back,

"Don't forget to turn off the light."

And I turn off the light and go down to the kitchen to eat cereal with my big brother.

The End.


End file.
